


Magnum Opus

by benignmilitancy



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Gen, Horror, Present Tense, Short One Shot, Sonic Adventure 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benignmilitancy/pseuds/benignmilitancy
Summary: Sleek, lethal, and designed for a single purpose, he and the Cannon share a kinship with one another. And yet even they frustrate. They cannot strike fast enough, according to the hands that wield them.
Kudos: 7





	Magnum Opus

"It's a work of art, sir."

"He," the Professor corrects his colleague as they gaze upon the dark slumberer nestled in a roost of cables and liquid. His hand rises to match the one pressed against warm, humming glass. "And not quite. Once complete, he will be my greatest yet."

"…The prototype?"

Gerald hangs his head at the question his colleague dares not ask.

"Lock down its holding cell," he says, "and redirect its life support to the Cannon. I'm sure once it's stabilized, it will serve some… auxiliary functions."

* * *

"Hell's this, old man?" Grasping him by the filthy scruff of his lab coat, the soldier shoves Gerald onto the ground in front of the capsule. "Another one of your Frankenstein experiments?"

"He was a project of hope," Gerald snaps, "of healing, before you took it from me."

The soldier turns to the being floating within, stares into its opened, perceiving eyes, and shudders. "An abomination's what it is." A kick to the ribs silences the Professor. "Shut up. Foolish to cry for things like that."

Gerald cradles bruised ribs, his pride softened by the blow. "Please," he implores, "whatever you do, don't hurt him."

The scoff that returns insists he's gone insane. Wrenching around, he smashes the butt of his gun into the capsule.

The Professor's incomplete work slithers out in a rush of fluid and glass, slumps prone to the floor. Its eyes terribly open.

Blink, Gerald prays, please blink.

It does not.

The soldier raises a boot to extinguish its life when a hand shoots up, crushing his ankle. With blinding violence and a vicious speed Gerald never would have imagined, the creature slams its would-be executioner onto the ground before his scream can pierce the air.

Silence. One body lies in grave stillness while the other stands the victor. Gerald trembles as his creation turns, his soul gripped by equal parts fear, grief, and love.

Whimpering on his hands and knees, he clambers over the corpse to embrace this monstrosity and stroke its quills. _Thank you, thank you._ It remains stiff and unreciprocating in his arms as its amniotic fluid pools with the blood spreading over the floor.

* * *

"Wait!" The Professor's grandson jabs a finger at his back. "You haven't told me your name. How in blazes do you expect me to contact you when I don't even know your name?"

The white Emerald glistens multiple reflections in his hand. He recognizes none of them.

"I have no name."

"Ho, ho!" the Doctor booms. "So dear old Grandpa never got around to it, did he? Well, I suppose I could do the honors myself."

"I would be most indebted to you, Doctor."

Nothing he is belongs to him. His body, his mind: these things were not given to him through natural means, by creators seeking to love their creation. Why does he crave what was never his?

The Doctor gives a wicked grin, gleaming teeth. It seems familiar somehow.

* * *

"You must sleep," Gerald tells it as he gently lowers its body into the receptacle. "Yes, you must be tucked into bed." Misty clouds swirl the light radiated by fluorescent panels; it shivers as it rests inside the icy capsule, expectant. "Do not worry, little one. I will wake you when the time comes."

Placing both hands on the lid, he shuts the receptacle, rendering it blind.

But not deaf. It hears a soft, melodic hum.

* * *

Maria hadn't awakened that morning. Unresponsive to an hour's worth of resuscitation. The most they can tell him, the greatest consolation they can give him, is that his little angel gained wings during the night and drifted peacefully to heaven.  
Gerald twists a noose of his tie, tighter and tighter in his knotted hands.

He could have sat at her bedside. Held her lithe, birdlike hand bruised from IVs. Hummed her her favorite lullaby.

Instead, he'd wasted that time debugging the Cannon. Instead… he chased those jingoistic bastards' idea of perfection, in the hopes that his groveling would regain their good graces and resume the flow of precious resources.

Thieves. They stole his time. Snatched her last breath. And for what? What, precisely, did the world below gain from this?

The colony has gone quiet.

* * *

His first failure was also his last. He'd slept too long, awakened too late to save her. When the Professor saw his failure, he threw him away, locked him inside a prison of dreamless sleep.

He's certain the cycle will repeat itself with subsequent generations: the Doctor will discard him once he, like the Cannon, has served his aims. Sleek, lethal, and designed for a single purpose, he and the Cannon share a kinship with one another. And yet even they frustrate. They cannot strike fast enough, according to the hands that wield them.

He crushes his fist and remembers bones breaking inside his grip. It doesn't take much to serve his duties, nor to do them well. He was designed to harm, not to save.

The Doctor would adore that, wouldn't he? For him to call upon his prowess to kill the traitor in one swift stroke and clean up this mess, all in the name of obligation.

He'd expect no less. Humans are horribly selfish creatures. They care neither for their weak nor their infirm, but lord their strength over the vulnerable.

It isn't his fault if they cannot bear the horrors they see in him. He is merely the canvas on which their desires are expressed. The mirror reflecting their depravity.

He snaps his glower toward Rouge, who dangles a copy of the report before him like bait. _If this picture is of the real ultimate life form,_ she says, _then exactly who, or what, is standing in front of me?_

Her words dislodge memories of a faint voice. _Thank you._ The Professor, grateful for blood.

Shadow tightens his fist to steady its quake. "Who," he snarls. "Don't call me 'what.'"

Rouge's smirk fades as he takes another step forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with the SA2 one-shots, lol. Can't help it. It's my favorite game, and I love me some quick angst.
> 
> This isn't as fleshed out as I'd like it to be, but I can't dedicate more time to it. This is based on ideas for an SA2 AU I was tossing around with my friend, in which Maria succumbed to her illness before Project Shadow was complete. 
> 
> GUN's role differs in that the government promised Gerald aid in exchange for a completed Eclipse Cannon, only to break their promises when they saw that the Cannon required the Chaos Emeralds to function, which they considered an extremely rare resource-too rare to bother with, in any case-and withdrew their offer of aid.
> 
> Gerald seals Shadow away out of shame, and the events of SA2 ensue, just for different reasons.
> 
> This version of Shadow diverges from his canon counterpart as a result. He suffers from cynicism, distrust, lack of identity, a sense of worthlessness, and the belief that humanity is selfish, as opposed to pathetic.


End file.
